


Tales from a Market

by notevenjokingfic



Series: Tales From ... [1]
Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: F/M, Outlander AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-10-02 00:53:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20455040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notevenjokingfic/pseuds/notevenjokingfic
Summary: A simple story of two people destined for each other.





	1. Tales from a Market: Part I

He sees her early, every Saturday morning. 

Jeans. Soft, well-worn t-shirt. Sometimes a lightweight jacket, sometimes a bulky sweater. Sometimes a scarf, and a pea coat. She wears flats most days, until the weather forces her feet into colourful Wellies, or thick-soled boots. Sometimes her curls are tucked up under a knit hat, or tied into a ponytail under a ball cap. Sometimes they fly free, dancing, and swirling, with the wind for a partner.

Sometimes she wears her sunnies, sometimes glasses with thick black frames. Sometimes her eyes are uncovered, and her eyes dart and glow with amber brilliance. 

She is always alone.

She buys sparsely, one or two of everything. She has varied tastes, the many colours of the fruit and veg bursting from her net shopping tote are a testament to that. She never buys meat. From him, she buys potatoes. She buys the Yetholm Gypsy in the winter when she wants them boiled or steamed. She buys the Dunbar Rover regularly with their white skin and snowy flesh. When he musters up the nerve to talk to her after weeks of buying from his stall, he tells her how he likes them roasted with olive oil and fresh rosemary.  She likes them baked, she tells him, with rivers of butter. 

The first time he shows her a Kepplestone Kidney with its blue skin, she laughs, the sound pure, and sweet, and lyrical. He holds up the long-shaped potato with its pointy end, and calls it by its nickname, the Ram’s Horn, just to hear her laugh again, to see her smile light up her face, to watch her eyes sparkle. He realizes she mustn’t smile much because she dips her head in embarrassment and covers her mouth. The next time she comes to the market he shyly hands her a bag of crisps, tells her he made them special for her to sample. Her eyes widen as she pops one in her mouth, chews, realizes he’s flavoured them with salt and vinegar.

_ How did you know? _ she asks. 

_ They’re my favourite, so I took a chance _ is his reply. 

He puts two of the blue-skinned tatties in a bag and tells her to try them mashed, if she doesn’t want to slice and fry them. She reaches for her wallet, and he waves her away. 

_ On the house _ , he says, and she looks up and around in mock confusion.  _ On the stall, then _ , he laughs. She dips her head in thanks and walks away, her round arse teasing him. 

He takes a trip to the Isles during the week and brings back The Shetland Black, the sprouts jet black with skin mottled dark blue and purple. They’re small but delicious. He hands them to her, five of them, and tells her how to cook them. He’s like a crow, leaving gifts for a mate, trying to show her in the most honest and non-threatening way what he thinks of her. And he thinks she is lovely. He thinks she is beautiful. He thinks she is alone, and lonely, and it makes his heart hurt to know that this gorgeous creature has no one. 

He is a simple farmer with nothing but the work of his hands, and simple gestures. He is learned but not in the way of the world. He doesn’t have clever banter or philosophical theories to share, political views to expound upon and be impressive. He has words carved from the earth, words born from the sun and the plow. He hopes his words are seeds that take root in her heart, and grow into her soul. He hopes his words flourish into something tangible she can see and feel. 

She approaches the stall one day, smile already fixed on her face, wallet at the ready. He is busy so he can’t speak to her right away. He glances at her as he serves other customers, watches as she finds his latest addition to the stall. An older woman sees the potato that she holds aloft, one eyebrow raised questioningly. 

_ The Highland Burgundy, ma’am. It was used to add appropriate colour to a meal for the Duke of Burgundy in the Savoy.  _ He addresses the old lady, but winks at her as best he can. Her eyes widen when she sees he can’t wink, and that smile is back along with the amber sparkle.  _ They’re full of antioxidants so they’re good for ye.  _

The woman buys a half kilo, and his curly-haired beauty buys two. 

_ And what do I do with these? _ she asks as she takes her change. 

_ Mash ‘em. Or ye can make crisps.  _ He’s careful not to touch her.

_ Always crisps, eh?  _ she smiles like she knows his weakness. She has no idea his weakness is her. 

_ What can I say? _ he chuckles, and shrugs. 

She turns to walk away, and he takes his chance. 

_ My name is Jamie. Jamie Fraser. _

She looks back at him.  _ Claire Beauchamp. It’s a pleasure to know you, Jamie. _

_ Aye. Likewise.  _ His voice is weak, as if he’s been punched in the solar plexus. 

He has her name. And her name is Claire. He tests it on his tongue at moments during the day. Long after she’s gone and he’s closing up the stall he can still see her as she looks back over her shoulder at him. Her curls resting on her shoulder, her eyes alight, her smile as sweet as the Mona Lisa’s. 

_ He will forever remember her like that, even when he takes his last breath. _


	2. Tales from a Market: Part II

Saturday mornings belong to the Market.

Ever since she was a little girl, this was her ritual. When she went with her mother she chose ripe apples, and fragrant herbs. With Uncle Lamb she picked out exotic fruits and pungent spices. For herself it’s fresh and farm grown, organic and rustic. She eats simply. She doesn’t need much. 

Every week, in every season, she begins by buying a cup of tea. She sits on the wooden bench next to the stall to savour it. In the cold, the steam blankets her skin, the paper cup warms her hands. In the sun, the tea feels like a garden party. 

She wanders afterwards, picking the ripest fruit, the crispiest vegetables. She chooses a handful of brussels sprouts, slender French beans, bright red tomatoes. The tops of carrots peek out from her net bag, the pale green of the leeks she buys pokes through the holes. 

The vendors are busy, their banter friendly, sometimes brusque. They say, _What ye need, darlin’? Come on, ain’t got all day. _ He’s different. His manner is gentle. He talks with his customers about their families, or how they’re feeling. He doesn’t rush the older folk who try to count out their money with arthritic fingers or shaking hands. He waits patiently, then places the change in their palms precisely, with one large hand under theirs in case they drop anything. He has lollies in a jar for the impatient toddlers, accepts the grateful sigh of thanks from harried young mums. 

His stall is neat, organized. The sign, Fraser’s Croft, is written in an old script and dates back to 1743. He sells potatoes of all different shapes, sizes and colours. He arranges them with his large hands, grabbing two or three in one grasp, and puts them in paper bags. They are working hands, with the odd scar on a knuckle, and dirt around the fingernails from harvesting his product. 

His eyes are a striking shade of blue, like the sky, or the waters around Tobermory. They are kind eyes that betray a sense of humour behind them, a twinkle of mischief. His hair is the most glorious shade of red, with strands of copper and gold. His hair reminds her of the spices in another market on the other side of the world, like cinnamon and saffron. It curls just at the nape, and comes up and around the back of his ball cap. His cheekbones are high, his jaw chiseled, his scruff reddish-gold. She is fascinated by his facial hair. Most men at the hospital are clean-shaven, as doctors are wont to do, preferring to look sterilized and hygenic. He looks like he sprang from the Earth, as tall as a tree, and just as thick, just as strong.

Now, on Market days, she wakes with butterflies in her stomach, and fusses with her hair a bit more. She drinks her morning tea and watches him, he’s easy to spot being so tall. She notices that he looks down the market street often, as if he’s looking for someone, waiting. She hopes he’s looking for her, but she can’t quite believe it. She’s not the “catch your eye” type of woman. There is nothing attractive about her unruly hair, her dull-coloured eyes. He’s been giving her things, little extras. It makes her feel special because now she notices he doesn’t him do that for any other customer. 

He finally introduces himself one day, and her heart skips a beat. It flutters inside her chest, rapid and irregular. 

His name is Jamie. 

She whispers it on her way home, speaks it louder inside, says it softly to her cat, Adso. 

When next she comes to Market she notices someone else in the stall with him. A short, effervescent woman, with dark hair. She talks with her hands, and teases the customers. For a brief moment she panics and thinks it’s his wife, that Jamie is married, and she feels like a fool. And then she sees them both, side by side, and it’s obvious. She’s different from Jamie, yet the resemblance is there. She must be a sister.

Jamie sees her as she approaches and he grins, his face brightening.

_Mornin’, Claire._

The woman’s head whips around at the sound of her name. She feels awkward, like she’s being judged. 

_Good morning, Jamie._

_The usual?_ he asks, popping open a bag.

She nods, not trusting herself to speak under the scrutiny of the woman. She fiddles for her wallet, takes out her money, and waits. As she shoves the bag into her net sack, she misses the exchange between brother and sister. She doesn’t see the sister mouth the words, _go on,_ or the brother level a scowl at her. She turns back around to accept her change and notices Jamie is blushing, his ears a bright red.

_Fancy a cuppa, Claire? My sister, Jenny, is here today so I can leave for a bit. _He sounds a little nervous, and she likes that.

She bites her lip in an effort to stop from smiling too widely. _ I would, thank you, _she responds, her voice a little higher, with a little more volume than she meant. 

He comes from around the table, untying his apron and tossing it behind him. Beside her he seems even larger. The top of her head meets the middle of his chest, and she feels surrounded by him, his warmth, his strength. With the barest of fingertips on the small of her back, they dodge the crowd on their way to where the food vendors are set up. He leads her to a seat, then orders for them. She watches him have a brief conversation with the girl behind the register. He nods once, then pays.

She smells the aroma of fresh coffee before the paper cup is in her hand. She notices the splash of cream, just like she takes it. _How did you know? _she asks.

He smiles shyly, one corner of his mouth lifting. _I asked. I see ye here, grabbin’ a coffee after ye’re done shopping. Ye like yer tea first thing, and a coffee on the way home._

He knows her routine, which means he notices her. He pays attention to the details, to what she likes, and she feels special.

_What do ye do, Claire?_ She loves how he says her name, like he wants it to linger on his tongue instead of spitting it out roughly. In his accent it’s melodic and beautiful. She is plain Claire Beauchamp, and nothing more. Here, with him, she feels different, interesting even.

She explains she’s a nurse, and his reaction is polite. She sees a tiny bit of light leave his eyes, and she wonders why. They talk for some time, until the Market begins to empty out, and people are leaving. Vendors begin to pack up, yet still they talk. 

_Do you need to go?_ she asks, gesturing to the action behind him. 

He looks over his shoulder, then shrugs. _Suppose I should. Time for this simple farmer to get back to work._

She reaches out before the thought is fully formed. Is this why his demeanour changed? Did he feel himself inferior because of her job? Medical professional vs farmer? The pads of her fingers press lightly against his wrist, and he stops. He looks down at their contact, then up to meet her gaze.

_You are not just a ‘simple farmer’, Jamie,_ she intones. _You are…_ she stops. She doesn’t really know what to say, or how to say it. How can she tell him he is a gentleman in a world of ‘just guys’? How can she tell him he is salt of the earth in a world of posers? How can she explain how she’s come to look forward to seeing him, that she says his name in the quiet moments of the day, that she is infatuated with him? 

So she smiles instead, and lays her hand flat on his arm. _You’re interesting, and funny. And very knowledgeable in what you do. You are, _she pauses, knowing what she wants to say but wondering if she should. She takes a chance, says what she truly thinks. _You’re…amazing. _

His lips curl in a soft smile as he dips his head, just a little, in shy acknowledgement of her words. _Can we do this again, Claire?_ he asks, hopefully, longingly.

_She will forever remember him like that, even when she takes her last breath._


	3. Tales from a Market: Part III

Three Saturdays later, after finishing their coffee, he asks if he can ‘call on her.’ She loves that he uses an old-fashioned expression but is surprised by the way his eyes harden, like he’s expecting rejection.

_ I would like that very much,  _ she says and reaches a hand out, palm up, indicating she wants his phone. His mouth forms a small  _ Oh!  _ and he digs it out of his pocket, gives it to her. _ _ She puts in her number, hands it back, then asks for his contact information. He trips over his tongue giving her the numbers. 

When she walks away she looks back over her shoulder to see him smiling at the screen. A face-splitting grin that makes her heart sing. He scans the crowd for her, sees her looking, and gives a boyish wave, back and forth. She flutters her fingers, and promptly walks into another shopper. When she rights herself, and them, she looks back again and shrugs. Their laughter is excited, giddy. 

A day later he calls on her.

He doesn’t text, he phones.  _ Is this a good time?  _ he asks, trying to be considerate. She doesn’t ever tell him it’s not, she just goes into the nearest hospital closet, or into an empty room to talk. She loves the sound of his voice over the phone. She can always hear the wind whistling down the line and into her ear. He talks to her out in the fields where his sister can’t overhear. They make plans for candlelight dinners, and for the silly movies. They go for walks along the river, and ice cream in tiny shops. He holds her hand at first, and then graduates to an arm around her, his long fingers spanning her rib cage. At the end of each evening he walks her to her door, and awkwardly stands saying good night until she makes the first move. He kisses her well, until she’s dizzy, until she has to grip his arms to keep from falling. 

Then, one night, instead of turning toward him for a good night kiss, she unlocks the door and steps inside, leaving it wide open for him to follow. He knows what this means. There are no more doubts, she has left them on the threshold, and he is intoxicated by her decision. She has finally arrived where he has been for weeks, no, months. And his heart hammers in his chest to the rhythm of his desire, of his heart’s desire. 

They undress slowly, and Claire marvels at his body. He is tall, and muscular, his shoulders wide, his chest broad with a smattering of reddish-gold hair. He’s defined in the way of a man who does physical labour, not one honed in a gym. She can feel the strength of him when he wraps her in his arms.

The first time he makes love to her, he is slow, and gentle. He is serious, and somewhat hesitant at first. He doesn’t want to hurt her, she’s so small, but it isn’t long before he realizes she is a passionate lover. They speak each other’s names over and over.

_ Claire. Oh God, Claire. _

_ Jamie. Now, Jamie.  _

She feels cherished and loved, and is embarrassed by the tears that slip down her temple and into her hair. He brushes them away with his thumb, kissing the salty path, whispering words of adoration. He feels incredible, like an Olympic athlete who’s just won gold. He stays until morning, wakes to her honey-gold eyes watching him.

_ I could get used to this, _ he admits, winding a finger around a lock of her hair.

_ I could, too _ , she says, rubbing the scruff under his chin. 

Their first time opens the floodgates, and he can’t get enough. He wants her so much he can scarcely breathe. He is driven by a need he doesn’t recognize, wanting to possess her and be possessed in return. 

_ I love you,  _ she whispers one night as he enters her.

_ I love you so much,  _ he whispers back, unable to believe he is this lucky. 

It doesn’t take long before he stands before her, his mother’s ring in hand, and asks her to be his wife. 

_ I'll never forget when I saw you for the first time,  _ he says, sincerely. _ It was as if I stepped outside on a cloudy day and suddenly the sun came out _ .

She says  _ Yes!  _ then laughs as she throws her arms around his neck. She admits that she found him charming and kind when she first met him. And so hot. He blushes again, to the tips of his ears, and slaps her arse playfully.

Before long they are married under the archway at Lallybroch, fresh market flowers filling the arch, pine tables overflowing with food, a celebration with family and friends.

Shortly after she joins him on a Saturday morning, where they start the day with a cup of tea, and when she finishes her shopping she steps into the stall behind the table, where they work together under the Fraser sign. 

Time barely passes before she is pregnant, and the vendors are taking bets on gender and names. Later, they smile at Jamie early on the weekend as he sets up the stall wearing a baby carrier as he works, the movement lulling the red-headed newborn to sleep. The tiny child resting against the farmer’s broad chest softens even the most impatient of customers, elicits smiles from the stern ones. 

Eventually that child is replaced by a second baby in the carrier, only this time the infant has dark hair and big blue eyes. This child watches the hustle and bustle carefully. 

Their lives take root, and they grow together, so close together that no one at the Market can remember a time where Jamie wasn’t with Claire. They can’t recall a time when he worked alone at his stall, when he didn’t have bairns knocking over the display or climbing into boxes and burrowing under potatoes to play hide and seek.

It seems there was never a Jamie, without Claire. It’s like their lives began when they began together. They are each other’s sunlight, water and air. 

And there are moments throughout their life together where Jamie and Claire look at each other and think, 

_ I will forever remember this moment, until I take my last breath.  _


End file.
